My youngest child is puffy-eyed from lack of sleep and therefore sluggishly dressing for World War 2 Day. Much to his disgust, boys  are not allowed to come dressed as soldiers flaunting weapons, but rather, as children who are about to be evacuated from Blitz-y London to the countryside with all its anticipative magical wardrobes. Items I’ve been able to forage for this event so far consist of skater shorts with pockets in the wrong places to be of the period, long  socks that read the word Disorder, his usual button up white shirt, a linen blazer and a grey v neck- even though the forecast is a blazing 25 degrees and sunny. Once WW2 boy’s transformation is complete, minus the blazer which he tears off declaring it ‘IMPOSSIBLE’, the tweenager, stationed at the bench with toast, YouTube and Latin verbs, snorts loudly.

“Don’t say anything,” I hiss, then shout […]